I'm writing to tell you that the "virus alert" e-mail you sent is just
a hoax.

The virus you mention is harmless. In fact, he really dislikes all this
attention you've thrown his way. Mainly because he just completed the last
phase of a female-to-male operation and he feels awkward enough, without
people pointing at him and claiming he's "harmful" or "unnatural."

His name is William (nee Wilma). He lives in a small studio apartment
in the University district of Ann Arbor, Michigan. His mom is a laid-off
autoworker and his father is in jail. When he was a young girl he would
often eat lunch with all the boys in the cafeteria, prompting the girls
-- especially the pretty ones -- to call her "oob." This was short for
One Of (the) Boys. Sure, it was awkward but Peggy Sanchez, the popular
girl, made it up and no one challenged her on it. "Hey, Oob, are you gonna
go play football during recess?" they would taunt. In fact, Wilma did play
football. She played two positions -- kicker and running back. She eventually
scored the winning field goal at the state championship game when she was
a junior. All the players were jubilant and they dogpiled on top of her
in celebration. Somewhere in the middle of all the joy of the moment, she
also felt something shift in her sexually. Something confusing. All those
arms, legs, helmets, shoulder pads. All of it squirming all over her and
screaming in her ear holes. She had one of those wimpy one bar helmets
for when she kicked and she later remembered someone wedging their face
in that space, trying to kiss her mouth while she gasped for air in the
pileup. That night, she cried. All the following weekend she cried.

The next year, when she was a senior, she had a chance to win another
championship for the team, this time from her running back position. On
the last play of the game, with her team at the 3-yard line, the quarterback
faked a handoff to her and rolled to his right. She faked a stumble and
then slipped quietly into the corner of the end zone, all alone. Wide open.
The quarterback, a harelip by the name of Oscar Nettle, lobbed the ball
to her. It seemed to float for a whole minute. Out of the corner of her
eye she saw a linebacker sprinting toward her. She held out both her arms,
as if getting ready to catch a baby. The linebacker dove through the air,
his stub-fingered dirty hands reaching. The ball landed perfectly in her
arms as the linebacker's helmet hit her thigh. She fell back, the ball
still in her hands. She had caught the ball. She stood up, her thigh just
charley-horsed. A couple of teammates began hoisting her on their shoulders
when the referee's whistles were finally heard. They were waving the play
off. Her left foot was out of bounds on the catch. On the thin white chalk
line . . . incomplete . . . game over. Wilma Doblonsky had blown it.

Soon after, her father, who sold homemade lamps out of his van near
a freeway exit, was sued. The lampshades he was making were not made with
the right kind of bulb clamp. He had skimped and constructed the clamp
out of a metal that transferred heat. In other words, if the lamps were
kept on for a few hours the shades would get hot and catch on fire. He
was responsible for several house fires and even the deaths of a dog, a
cat, a parrot, and a 90-year-old man. The jury had no mercy.

For the next six years, Wilma lived what could be called an experimental
lifestyle. Dressing up as a man and going to Magic card conventions and
Star Wars premieres, letting her armpit hair grow wildly, in great wispy
clumps like balls of moss, eating Ethiopian food, adapting old Atari games
into Internet sitcoms, inventing frangible snowboards.

As the 20th century came to a close, Wilma felt she needed a challenge.
Her interest in the booming dot-com scene led her to a brief stint at a
major Internet service company. When she was unceremoniously let go because
of "philosophical differences" she immediately sought revenge. A competing
company hired her as a virus in the spring of 1999. She was the first human
to turn herself into a viral form and her first job, the Hot Woman Bikini
virus, was quite successful -- infecting an estimated 2.2 million computers.
Her follow-up, New Free Cars, was not as effective, destroying a mere 4,000
PCs. In 2001, she began writing her memoir, which she planned to publish
in serial form -- a different chapter released each month for sixteen months.
Negotiations were heavy. She decided to go with Oxford University Press
because there was a secret hidden bonus in the contract. Many believe this
to be the sex-change procedures.

With the memoir recently completed, Doblonsky turned in the manuscript
with the new first name, William. Oddly enough, the memoir does not mention
that William used to be female. All of that however, has changed. Thanks
to your reactionary and intrusive e-mail announcement. Since then, these
various facts (and some vicious fictions) have begun to surface as people
research William's virus activities.

A representative from Oxford University Press will hold a press conference
on the matter at 2:00 this afternoon, from the Black Angus restaurant in
downtown Ann Arbor. By answering questions in this forum, the publisher
hopes to bring a sense of normalcy back to William's life.

In the future, you, and everyone who has ever pointed their finger (or
mouse) at a virus without knowing the whole story should be penalized in
some manner. Sure, there's always someone who'll speak up and say simply:
"Don't worry, people. This virus is a hoax." But then the virus has to
live the rest of their life with that nagging shame for the rest of your
life. They cannot resume their normal existence because of your paranoid
and insensitive announcement. Imagine applying for a job and hearing the
interviewer state aloud: "I remember when there was that virus named Doblonsky.
I was running my damn Virex for two hours before I realized it was a fake!"

It would be a better world for all of us if, in the future, your ignorance
was kept in check. To put it bluntly: Leave the virus alone!